


Hullo! You have a looking glass.

by Anonymous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Non Consensual, Snow White motif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 15:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His hair falls in tousled ebony curls about his face, messiness suggesting he either has not bothered to sculpt it into place or it simply refuses to remain there. His skin would be frighteningly white if not for the freckles across his face, that flicker with every twitch of a muscle, so the surface of his skin seems almost in motion. He has the blush of a young milkmaid, the cheekbones of a duchess, and a sweet curved jaw that gives an air of utter vulnerability. His eyes are between blue and green and grey, and small, almost hidden behind his dark thick lashes.</p>
<p>Most stunning of all however are his lips. They are the fullest Montparnasse has ever seen, fuller than he thought would ever be possible to see, and their thickness would seem almost ridiculous if it they were not so enchanting. They are the deepest red, rubies and cherries being pitifully pale and pink in comparison, only the richness of a cut vein coming anywhere close to the shade. Montparnasse cannot say he has ever seen a more beautiful pair of lips in his whole life.</p>
<p>And Montparnasse has always considered his own lips his most attractive feature."</p>
<p>Montparnasse discovers a boy prettier than him. He cannot let that stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hullo! You have a looking glass.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the kink meme prompt: "Gorbeau House-era. Maybe Montparnasse goes to visit Jondrette and takes a fancy to the pretty boy next door? I'd love if there was mention of how Marius sees Montparnasse and how young he is, and Marius worrying that the Jondrettes next door can hear, but anything would be great really!"
> 
> ...The prompt said _anything_ , and that's my only excuse. Thank god for the anon collection. Srsly, Hugo: don't make your male lead look like Snow White. Because somebody (ie. me) is gonna get all ~~~artistic~~~ about it.
> 
> Note about Marius's description here: it's mostly based off the Brick. But I took some features from movie!Marius because, well, why not.

Eponine starts it, as he kisses her -- no, that is not the right word, more that he fucks her without bothering to have sex with her -- in the hallway of the Gorbeau House. Perhaps her papa knows, perhaps not. Honestly Montparnasse doubts he would care. Eponine is the kind to claw at his face one moment and caress his cheek the next, and he can't help but admire her for that. Of course she holds no actual affection for him, nor he for her, but beneath it all Eponine has the soul of a well-off little girl who likes to collect pretty things. And Montparnasse is the prettiest thing he knows, certainly the prettiest thing Eponine knows, so he offers himself to her collection. It may be said he is a wicked soul, but it may also be said he is a generous one.

Usually Eponine does him the courtesy of paying him attention, but not tonight. He pulls away to bite her neck and she stares over his shoulder, unfocused, sighing almost dreamily. It feels as if she is distracted by something in the shadows, though god only knows what she can even see in this dark.

"'Ponine," he murmurs as he slides to his knees, because if that doesn't make her pay attention, nothing will. He casually pushes aside that not-even-a-rag passing for a skirt. "'Ponine, tell me I'm pretty."

She laughs. "What, because you don't hear it enough already? Ain't getting insecure on me, are you?"

"Oh, me? Never."

But she does not say it, does not indulge his vanity, as she has every other time -- with rolled eyes and an exasperated tone, and honesty. If he were mad at her for it that would be one thing, but instead he simply feels anxious. Which is a much less familiar emotion.

Still, he has certain skills that deserve respect. He takes his tongue to her wet heat, and she groans in a way that is as close to appreciation as she gets, but still -- she remains distant, and as he pushes her toward orgasm she only drifts further away. For a second he thinks he feels a presence rush by -- something pure and white that makes 'Ponine freeze, captured in starlight. But then it flickers out of view and they are left in the darkness.

-

It is Claquesous who brings the boy to his attention. They await a banker from Burgundy, a terrible bore with a penchant for cheap wine, who they met earlier this evening and have plans to rob. They sit in a doorway, and hear someone clattering their way up the creaking wooden stairs which are just starting to rot. "Look at Snow White," muses Claquesous, his gaze alerting Montparnasse to a young man rushing toward his door.

"Snow White was beautiful."

"What, you don't think he is?"

The boy's coat is old and threadbare, too large around his waist and too short on his wrists and ankles. It has holes at the elbows and two buttons missing. The leather of his boots is worn to the point polish cannot disguise; the tips of them peel away from the soles. Montparnasse snorts, fingering his red silk cravat. "No."

"Funny. From what I've gathered, it seems your opinion is a decidedly minority one about these parts. Oh, the girls swoon over him, they really do."

Montparnasse thought he knew better than to try and figure how Claquesous knows the things he does, but: "Who told you that?"

"No-one tells me anything. I find out."

"Well then, who? Who swoons over this boy so much?"

"Oh, even I couldn't hope to know all their names," Claquesous grins. "A florist named Adrienne always leaves the best arrangements in the window he can see from his apartment. A baker's daughter named Michelle wears low cut blouses when she thinks she may see him. A grisette named Cecile. A governess named Adelaide. A doctor named Lucas. Even our Eponine, I believe, spends some evenings simply waiting and praying for a glance of her lovely neighbour."

Eponine. That fills him with rage. He is the prettiest thing Eponine knows, he is the prettiest thing she will ever have, and he is more than she deserves. Why should she pine over a pauper?

"Of course, he doesn't notice any of them. Beautiful and modest," Claquesous continues as Montparnasse unthinkingly reaches for his knife. "If anything, I believe he believes they are laughing at him."

That door swings open and the boy comes back out, looking around curiously. Christ, he really is pretty. His hair falls in tousled ebony curls about his face, messiness suggesting he either has not bothered to sculpt it into place or it simply refuses to remain there. His skin would be frighteningly white if not for the freckles across his face, that flicker with every twitch of a muscle, so the surface of his skin seems almost in motion. He has the blush of a young milkmaid, the cheekbones of a duchess, and a sweet curved jaw that gives an air of utter vulnerability. His eyes are between blue and green and grey, and small, almost hidden behind his dark thick lashes.

Most stunning of all however are his lips. They are the fullest Montparnasse has ever seen, fuller than he thought would ever be possible to see, and their thickness would seem almost ridiculous if it they were not so enchanting. They are the deepest red, rubies and cherries being pitifully pale and pink in comparison, only the richness of a cut vein coming anywhere close to the shade. Montparnasse cannot say he has ever seen a more beautiful pair of lips in his whole life.

And Montparnasse has always considered his own lips his most attractive feature.

He catches this boy's eye for a second, before the boy flushes in embarrassment and ducks back inside. Montparnasse does not seem to have had the same effect on this boy as this boy has had on him, and that only infuriates him further. He addresses Claquesous again without turning to face him: "Who _is_ he?"

Claquesous laughs. "Oh, I could tell you. But don't you think it better if you find out for yourself?"

Montparnasse stares at that door, unable to shake the thought -- hair like nightfall, skin like a snowstorm, lips like blood. Yes. It is better he finds out himself.

-

"Any prettier and they'd mistake you for one of the flowers."

There's a knife at his throat before he can blink. Instead he laughs. "Christ, Montparnasse," she says, keeping the knife pressed there for a second. "You know, I'm not sure if you're lucky I recognised you or not!"

But nonetheless she withdraws the knife, looking at him suspiciously. "Never took you for one to roll around in the dirt. You'd get some in your hair."

"Never took you for one to roll about in the dirt when you didn't have to." Silently he whispers _but you always have to._ "You don't look as if Papa has beaten you. And even if you did, you're hardly one to run away and hide from that. So what is this? What are you waiting in a flowerbed for?"

Eponine has never been particularly shy about sharing her plans. Sometimes he believes she is pretending he is her friend. So he does not expect the way she bristles, how she scowls, how she turns from him as if he just grievously insulted her -- no, if he grievously insulted her she would slap him, punch him, slash him with her knife. She turns from him as if he _hurt_ her.

"Nothing."

"Really, nothing?"

"Nothing I would let you know about."

He laughs. "Oh, 'Ponine. Right, yes, I am a demon. But you have long since known nothing is sacred; at least, nothing of yours. What could you possibly have that still has virtue, enough to protect?"

By some divine providence, a candle is lit and glows from the window above the flowerbed. A pale hand accidentally gets too close to the flame, and pulls back, burnt, a quiet "ow!" plainly audible. Eponine's look of resolution flickers with the fire. Montparnasse looks across the street to the nearest shopfront, a florist's, where an enchanting array of roses and blossoms lays exactly parallel with the candle.

Montparnasse is angry, and so he smiles. "'Ponine," he says, "tell me I'm pretty."

She stares at him. "...You're mad."

He laughs. "Be that as it may. But tell me I'm pretty and mad."

She still does not understand, and Montparnasse looks again at that window. "So," he says. "Do you know who he is? Does he know who you are? Has he ever spoken to you? Do you know his name?"

"If I did, do you think I'd tell you?"

"So I'll take that as a no then," he says. He examines her face carefully. "So, dark hair, pale skin, red lips? That is the fashionable type of boy for a young woman such as yourself to fuck?" She slaps him, viciously, across the face. The sound rings out. He grins. "I do try and keep up with the trends."

"Stop. Just stop," she spits, missing tooth Papa had her sell six months ago plainly visible through her angry snarl.

"Oh, did I offend you? My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not know I may offend a gentlewoman's tastes." His spiteful words fuel her fury, and that fuels his fury, and that fuels more spiteful words. "So, you believe he is pure. Too good for the likes of me and you. What do you mean to accomplish by this? Waiting under windows? I never took you for a romantic."

She says nothing. That only angers him further, because -- Eponine always has words, oh so many words, and he finds them wildly entertaining. Her life is nothing and so she fills it with empty babble. But this boy, this pretty boy he is _something_ to her, and Montparnasse finds that absolutely terrifying. This boy is so pretty the world itself changes around him. No-one deserves that power -- no-one other than him.

"You know, there is a name for this sort of thing. Not in common discourse, but you do pride yourself on reading so -- how familiar are you with the courtly romances? I'd think your mother would give you some inkling. The _princesse lointaine._ Ah, yes, I see it now: a pure virtuous woman, whom the hero idolises from afar, but who alas is permanently unattainable! Yet, she drives the hero to greatness, to goodness. Is that would you want, Eponine? Someone to make you good? Someone to be good for?"

_Still_ , she is silent. He rages. He can always get a reaction out of Eponine -- she doesn't like him but she's attached to him, because he is one of the few things she can say she has had. He allows himself to be that. But if she does not even acknowledge him, what is the point? He is pretty and wonderful and the best thing of hers. She cannot dream of something better. He won't allow it.

"It's pathetic. He'd think you're pathetic."

She cringes, and internally, he does too. He doesn't care that the words are cruel. He cares that they're _cheap._ He prefers his insults to be subtle, manipulative, deadly. To simply throw muck at her -- it is effective yes, but it's also too easy. There is no victory in it. His words are harsh and blunt and _ugly_.

His tide of fury surges. Not only is this boy daring to be prettier than Montparnasse -- he is making Montparnasse uglier.

That is a sin that must be punished.

Then Eponine grins again, teeth yellow and savage. "If you ever speak one word to him, I'll slit your throat," she says cheerfully. "Good evening, Montparnasse."

He watches as she pushes herself up out of the dirt. "The same to you, mademoiselle."

He pays little attention to her threats. Even if she did kill him, it would be unimportant -- or at least, less important than what he must do. This is a simple matter of self-defense now, and he doubts there is a man on Earth who, if he truly knew what this was, could possibly judge Montparnasse for any action he may take.

For he must make this boy ugly. Before this boy makes him so.

-

Plans have never been difficult for Montparnasse. Besides, something about this boy says he won't be difficult to trick. His pure gaze promises both innocence and naivety. Montparnasse's opportunity comes quickly, with the boy trudging home carrying a stack of boys, all the way up to his eyes. The afternoon is dreary, and puddles of rainwater collect in the street. Montparnasse looks down at the coat he is wearing -- blue, velvet, fitted at the waist, buttons made of gold and pearls -- and sighs. He procured it off an Italian diplomat and patron of the theatre, who quietly handed it over while shivering in terror before Montparnasse slit his throat. Montparnasse is very fond of it. But then he sees the waitress of the cafe in which he sits -- Gabrielle, he believes he heard the landlady scream at her -- get distracted while wiping a table, staring at this boy. She notices his inky curls and china skin, not his rain-soaked shoes and oversized coat. She looked at Montparnasse when he came in, as women do, but only for a second, and with nothing like the intensity with which she gazes now. Montparnasse believes he must do something.

He collects himself, leaves the cafe, wanders into the street. He easily fakes a look of distraction. He and the boy soon collide, both stumbling and being knocked to the ground, the books flying, Montparnasse's arm landing in a puddle. He hisses as he feels filthy water seep through his sleeve. _I've killed men for less than that._

But he cannot. At least, not yet.

"I'm -- I'm sorry," says the boy, breathless, embarrassed. He pushes himself off the ground, onto his knees. "I didn't see you--"

"Nor I you, and from the looks of things, you have an excuse. I doubt you could have seen anything behind that tower of books. So yes, I believe it was my fault," he says with a charming smile. But the boy does not look at him; he frantically collects the books off the ground before the water ruins them. Montparnasse changes tack. "Here, let me help you."

He collects the three that the boy seemingly cannot keep in his grasp, and the boy looks shocked by such a gesture. "I presume you were taking these somewhere, yes? Well then I will help you carry them. An apology, of sorts."

"You don't -- you have nothing to apologise to me for," the boy mumbles, blushing, averting his eyes. Montparnasse truly does not know _why_.

"On the contrary. I ruined your coat."

"Huh?" The boy looks down at the breast of his jacket, where a large patch of water is splashed. "Oh. Well, it was something of a rag in any case."

_Well, that's true,_ thinks Montparnasse. He notices Montparnasse does not offer _him_ and apology for _his_ jacket, despite it being very distinctly not a rag, and he wants to claw the boy's eyes out. _Selfish prick._ Yet he is patient.

"Well let me help you anyway."

"I... Alright." Montparnasse gathers he is only agreeing because he is too shy to outright refuse. "I was returning these to my apartment. Come, I will you show you the way."

*

The walk there is silent, the boy still seeming horribly ashamed of nothing at all, staring at the cover of his books so as not to meet Montparnasse's eyes. Nonetheless Montparnasse keeps up his act, looking up on occasion to check the boy's route, as if he did not know the way to the Gorbeau House off by heart anyway.

The hall is as dank and miserable as ever, and for a second, Montparnasse thinks he feels Eponine's hawkish eyes watching him. He shakes the thought away. She was whining this morning about being sent to do a job at the other end of town, one that would take until nightfall, so she cannot be here. Still, he hopes at some point she does find out. Sees what Montparnasse has done to her Dulcinea.

The boy lets Montparnasse into his room. "I know it isn't much," he says.

Indeed it is not. It's tiny, almost bare, perplexingly free of _things_ \-- at least for Montparnasse, whose room seems to acquire baubles and trinkets like other rooms acquire dust. His apartment is like a sparrow's nest, full of stolen coins. This boy must live a very small life if his whole existence fits in such a small room. And yet, the space is dignified. It is neat and orderly, not like the squalor next door that Thenardier revels in, that the madame shouts about, that Eponine turns her nose up at. Anyone staying in this room would not have much, but Montparnasse doesn't think it would drive them mad.

The boy deposits the books he is carrying on an old desk, varnish worn off in most places, with a wonky leg. Montparnasse follows suit. "Thank you," says the boy, seeming more comfortable now freed from the public sphere. "You didn't have to do that."

"It seemed only polite."

"But you were in such a rush! I assumed you had somewhere to be?"

_You think of that now?_ "I'm afraid not. Simply... rushing through the streets for the thrill of it. You must think I'm a lunatic! I hope I didn't frighten you."

"No, it's fine," says the boy. His eyes meet Montparnasse's, and an awkward silence falls. He blushes again. But his eyes do not move.

Montparnasse cocks his head to the side, and smiles. "Forgive me monsieur if I am overstepping my bounds, but -- I did not catch your name?"

"...Oh! How rude of me; I'm sorry. Marius Pontmercy." He pauses a second. "Wait."

Then he extracts something from his pocket, a business card. Montparnasse chuckles at the formality, but does read the name emblazened across the top.

"A baron? Well I was not expecting this," he says, sounding impressed. _Well not a princess, but still, nobility._ The boy -- Marius -- seems embarrassed.

"Well it is not actually recognised by the current regime," he explains, and Montparnasse curiously raises an eyebrow. "It's complicated."

Montparnasse shrugs. He cares little for _la Patrie_ and its neverending string of governments. He slides the card into his pocket and extends his hand. "Montparnasse. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

Another silence, and Marius glances toward the door. "So," he says with a small cough. "Will you be leaving soon?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Oh no, not particularly, I just... I'm not sure why you would not want to leave?"

Montparnasse smiles at him. "Simply because I have no reason to do so," he says. "May I sit?"

"Oh -- yes, certainly."

Montparnasse perches himself on the edge of this boy's bed -- a thin greying matress, hard and uncomfortable, and too-small sheets with holes in them. Marius stares as if he's shocked Montparnasse just did that -- and does not know if he should be. Montparnasse laughs. "It's alright, I promise I won't leave poison on your pillow. Come, sit with me."

Marius blinks at him a few times, not quite comprehending, before he slinks his way over next to Montparnasse. "Um," he says, seeming remarkably out of place given this is his bed, "was there... something you wanted to talk about?"

"Not in particular." Marius's arms hover awkwardly by his sides, and Montparnasse gently strokes his forearm. "You have very pretty hands, monsieur," he says, wrapping his own palm over one of those pretty hands, hating himself for admitting it, but unable not to when confronted with that soft skin and long fingers. He vows to himself he will ignore the rest of the boy's prettiness, at least for a moment, and focus only on these hands -- perhaps he can train himself to bear them? But he looks up to see the boy's dainty blush. Fuck.

"I -- what are you--"

"Shush." Perhaps his patience falters a little, but Marius is so preoccupied it scarcely matters. He gasps as Montparnasse fidgets with the button on his cuff (he has buttons, not cufflinks; not anything that would add to the sweetness of his fine wrist. He does not bother to decorate himself, and perhaps that is why Montparnasse despises him so -- he is so _ungrateful_ ). "Don't be afraid."

"Monsieur, _what are you doing_?!"

Montparnasse laughs. "Nothing I have not done before, relax. I promise your secret shall not spread." He traces patterns on the inside of Marius's arm, and Marius shivers. Montparnasse grins.

"This is -- very improper."

Montparnasse sighs. Of course. He is seducing a virtuous maiden, a princess even; the sugar must be fed to him by hand. He removes his hand from Marius's wrist and moves it to that sweet round jaw, cupping his cheek tenderly. "You poor thing," he muses, his gaze full of sympathy. "They have made you frightened, made you ashamed. They do so to many, of course. But with one as lovely as you it seems an absolute tragedy."

Marius's blush deepens, and he looks away. But he does not _pull_ away, and Montparnasse grins. He is winning. "Well I am here to undo that damage," he continues. "You needn't be scared of a single thing. If it helps, pretend this is not happening -- that it is a dream, a far off fantasy, something of that sort. Embrace it, embrace joy and happiness and -- pleasure. For someone so pretty should never look ashamed."

Slowly, Marius's eyes come to meet Montparnasse's. They are uncertain, but clearly being convinced. "Monsieur," he says hesitantly, then gulps. He leans foward and presses a quick, chaste, harsh kiss to Montparnasse lips.

He's gone in a second, and Montparnasse is a little perturbed. He thought his first encounter with those lips would be something more memorable than that. But when the boy looks away again, embarrassed, Montparnasse catches his wrist.

Montparnasse smiles at him. After a second, Marius smiles back.

The battle is won.

So he pulls Marius in to kiss him properly, wraps an arm around his waist, slides their red lips against one another. Marius is shy, inexperienced, but he responds. Montparnasse grips his jaw tighter.

Marius pulls back for breath, but seems as if he is not about to run away. "How," he gasps, struggling a little, "How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

"You're younger than me."

Montparnasse blinks. He wasn't expecting that -- he spent so much time thinking of Marius as a boy, but he supposes, he's only young compared to the men (old, drunk, wretched things; crooks, not just criminals) he spends so much time with. But his anger grows when he realises this boy is _older_ than him and still has more of a child's charm. It's just not fair.

"Not by much, I presume?" He doubts Marius is older than twenty. "And I do seem more experienced. So overall, I doubt it should change things."

Marius gets distracted when Montparnasse brings his hands to the top of his shirt -- old and worn, uncertain whether it wants to be white or grey or yellow -- and starts undoing the buttons. His breath hitches as if he may panic, and Montparnasse kisses his cheek soothingly. "Don't worry."

Marius doesn't.

Montparnasse then deals with his own trousers, opening them so his prick does not just fall out obscenely, but he can easily pull it out. He turns back to Marius, whose anxious expression would be hilarious if it were not so despicably enchanting, and winds his hands through the boy's soft dark hair. "Marius," he says. "Marius, do you want to do this?"

"I..." Marius's breath hitches as Montparnasse leans forward, kisses the side of his neck gently, watching his face out of the corner of his eye. "...Yes, please Monsieur."

Montparnasse smiles, slowly tightening his hands in that thick hair. "Good."

He _yanks_.

Marius gives a squeal of pain, pushes back, but Montparnasse only grips tighter -- that thick mane is good for holding onto. With a kick he knocks Marius off the bed, onto the floor, and pulls him up onto his knees by his hair. He smirks at how Marius whimpers in fear and confusion. "Shut up," he snarls, as he lets go with one hand and clutches tighter with the other, so he can remove his prick from his trousers and force it against Marius's lips.

"I -- I don't--" He should have known better than to talk. Montparnasse easily pushes his cock inside the boy's mouth, and he's only half-hard but really, this isn't at all about sex. This is about disgracing this boy. That gets him hard faster than anything he's ever done before.

Marius coughs and chokes and splutters, and that should make him look ridiculous but instead it makes him _cute_. Montparnasse wrenches his hair tighter and thrusts deeper into his mouth. "Suck," he says, hating himself for just how _crude_ the word is, but it's all he can-- " _Suck_ , you slut."

Marius whines, out of pain or distress or shame and arousal, God only knows, but his tongue moves -- maybe just because he doesn't know what to do, but still. Montparnasse pushes the boy's head back and forth, watches as his prick slides between those red wet lips. They only grow thicker, more blood-filled. Montparnasse snarls. Marius whimpers.

He doesn't know if the boy is enjoying it; like this, he can't really tell. Wouldn't it be better if he did though? After all, it is one thing to defile him -- another to make him into a whore who likes it.

So he pulls out, still keeping Marius's head firmly in place. Saliva drips down his chin, and he doesn't notice; his eyes are glazed and tear-filled. Montparnasse tries to convince himself it's disgusting. "You still want this?" he asks, yanking once again on his curls.

"I don't -- I don't under--"

"Pontmercy, I came here and very generously offered to fuck you. Either you want it or you don't. It's a simple yes or no question; please don't waste my time."

Marius's eyes fall to the floor again, once again looking ashamed (he looks so terribly sweet when he's ashamed, and Montparnasse would rip his throat out with his teeth, he really would). "I think -- I think I want to," he admits, cheeks almost as red as his lips. "Just..."

"If you want, take. There's no need to talk about it, whore."

He thrusts back in as fast and as roughly as possible, relishing how Marius squeals. He fucks that throat raw, leaving Marius gagging and moaning. He pulls Marius forward so the boy's lips wrap around the very base of him. He hisses in pleasure at the warm wet heat and that constricting, struggling throat, and when he closes his eyes he can almost forget he is doing this to someone so terrifyingly gorgeous.

That plan falls through when he hears Marius start to sob. Tears fall down his cheeks in crystalline formations, looking every inch the beautiful maiden weeping for her beloved even with a cock down his throat, even with his own prick straining the fabric of his trousers (grey that should be black, too short at the ankles, too wide at the hips). Montparnasse _hates_. He doesn't know what weapon he has against this boy.

Then he spies the mirror in the corner. Shame. He has shame.

"You have a looking glass," he says, pulling Marius off again, tugging at his hair like a dog's leash. "Come."

Marius's body is weak with shock; he doesn't resist as Montparnasse pushes him toward the mirror, sets him back down kneeling in front of it. Finally, Montparnasse lets go of his hair, grabbing his wrists and putting them up against the glass. "Stay," he says, and Marius shivers, as Montparnasse tears apart the buttons of his trousers and yanks them down around his thighs. Marius is exposed, hard, and very obviously frightened. Montparnasse smiles, and raises three fingers to the boys lips. The rush of adrenaline makes it possible to do without acknowledging those lips.

The boy whimpers as he sucks, wetting them thoroughly, perhaps aware that if he doesn't he is the one who will pay for it. Montparnasse uses the fine, polished nails on his other hand to scratch down his back. He grins as Marius gasps. "You're not even resisting, are you?" he says, and does it again. "You love it. You know, I want to leave you bleeding. Scratched and bruised and -- oh yes, with come all over you. So when people look at you, that's what they'll see. Just how defiled you are."

_So they won't see your freckled skin and innocent eyes. So they won't see those blood red lips of yours. So they won't see you're prettier than me._

"W-wai--" The word cuts off as in a cry as Montparnasse starts pushing two fingers inside him. Tears fall down his face as Montparnasse struggles to breach him. Christ, he's tight.

"You're a virgin, aren't you?" he asks. Marius sobs and nods. _Of course he's a virgin. So pure and virtuous. How could he be anything other than a virgin?_ "Really, that makes it worse. Willing to lose yourself like _this_ , to some strange man -- no, boy; I forgot, I'm younger than you -- you don't even know? You're pathetic."

He sees his own flinch in the mirror, and prays Marius isn't paying attention. The words he says are so horrible, cheap and easy, and he hates himself for being able to say them. However, cheap and easy is what he wants to make of this boy. To do so he must plumb the depths himself. He will leave the stench on Marius, and come out of this the graceful one.

Marius cries out as Montparnasse forces his fingers inside him, and then moans wretchedly as he thrusts them back and forth. "Will you be quiet?" Montparnasse snaps, but Marius doesn't seem to hear him, whining as loud as ever. _Does he ever notice anything other than himself?_ Infuriated, Montparnasse takes his spare hand and wraps it around Marius's neck. "It's a good thing you're a virgin, if you're always this annoying while being fucked."

The boy gasps, gags, struggles against the grip but it does quiet him down. "Monsieur," he forces out, barely able to as Montparnasse squeezes tighter, "I can't--"

"Well yes, obviously." Montparnasse moves his hand higher up, to the point on his neck where the bruise he intends to leave could not be entirely hidden by a collar. He wonders how the boy will try and explain that. Will he claim he was mugged? But somehow Montparnasse thinks everyone would _know_. That radiant innocence scarcely suggests a talent for lying, after all.

Of course, that is assuming Marius is alive to try and lie. After all, Montparnasse could just squeeze tighter, cut off his air, leave him dead in Montparnasse's arms and around his cock. But he looks at Marius in the mirror and knows he cannot do that. For that white skin looks even more delicate with bruises and blood on it, those gentle freckles more pronounced, the blush ever more so one of an angel. His ebony hair sticks to his face with sweat, but that only frames his face better, making him look like some spirit who emerges from the water. The red in his lips is only more pronounced as it sinks from his face, as his mouth hangs open to try and find more oxygen, as he pants out sobs and pleas.

Montparnasse cannot kill Marius until he has destroyed Marius. He has not done so yet.

He hisses and slides his third finger inside, spreading them apart, listening to Marius's whine of pain. "Shush," he says, wondering why nothing he does can quite stop Marius making noise. "Don't pretend you don't like it; I know better." And Marius gasps as he crooks his fingers, hitting him in that very place that has reduced kings and princes (and barons) to whores. Marius's body convulses horribly, so much so Montparnasse almost loses his grip on his neck, and with this great excess of force Marius strikes his fist against the looking glass. It shatters, and his hand begins to bleed.

Montparnasse lets go of his neck, barely paying attention to how Marius gasps in air -- until the boy mutters "Thank you." He wants to scream. Montparnasse has done all this to him, and not only is the boy still pretty, he's still _sweet_? How dare he?

Montparnasse ignores it, grabbing the bleeding hand and pulling it backwards, making Marius wince, raising it to his lips. "You're not exactly known for your sense of self-preservation, are you? I suppose that's why you agreed to this." It is important to remind Marius that he _agreed_ , to make him guilty and ashamed, to make him know anything Montparnasse does to him is his own damn fault. Montparnasse presses his mouth to the cut, not in a kiss but an assault, spreading it open with his tongue and letting saliva drip into it, desperate to make it sting. From Marius's squeal, he'd say he succeeds. He removes his mouth and looks at Marius once more in the mirror, tears dripping from his bloodshot eyes and precome dripping from his blood-filled prick. He laughs.

"Well, go on," he says, guiding Marius's bleeding palm down his front. "Touch yourself." He wraps Marius's own fingers around his cock, keeps their hands together so he can force Marius to stroke himself roughly. Marius moans and bucks into the contact. Montparnasse does it twice more and Marius moans louder. Then Montparnasse removes his hand and Marius keeps going, gasping as he jerks himself, blood pouring all over his cock.

"Oh, you little slut." And he yanks his fingers out roughly, and Marius whines at his sudden emptiness.

"Monsieur--" he gasps, subtly pushing his ass out further, practically begging Montparnasse to put them back in. Montparnasse smirks as he stares at Marius in the mirror, frantically stroking himself, desperate to have something inside him. This is proof. Proof that this boy is not a princess, not a kinght in shining armour, just a whore.

(But then why does he still look _so damn_ \--)

If he's proved his point there is no reason to hold out on the boy. Easily he places his prick at the boy's entrance. "Look at yourself," he says, gripping the boy's jaw once more, forcing him to face his own reflection. "You look so depraved, so filthy. You're being fucked, you innocent little thing. And between the two of us, I think it makes you look absolutely b--"

Montparnasse stops. No. He can't say that; the whole point of this has been to destroy that, to make Marius as wretched and as ugly as he can. In the mirror he snarls in rage, and Marius sees that, and looks terribly confused through his tears. Montparnasse may start to panic slightly.

So he pushes in as roughly as possible, so Marius _screams_ , completely unaware of his effect on Montparnasse.

He's still rough and tight, barely prepared, and every thrust of Montparnasse inside him leaves him howling in pain. Good. Montparnasse grabs his hips again, so he cannot possibly get away. He has no choice than to just kneel there and take, having a cock split him apart far faster than anyone can possible handle -- and loving it, still stroking himself with his bloody hand, still bucking back against the thrusts, still sobbing pleas and blasphemies under his breath, still clawing at the glass in way that may cut him again.

His head falls forward against the mirror and he closes his eyes, and no, Montparnasse cannot possibly allow that. "Don't you dare," he says, grabbing Marius's chin and forcing his head back up, "if you want to be fucked this is the price. You have to see what it does to you; just how dirty, how ridiculous you look--"

Marius screams again, and Montparnasse covers his mouth with his hand (he no longer sees those lips, swollen and gorgeous, in the mirror). He doubts anyone in this house would care about some boy screaming, but still, better to be careful. "Please understand, Marius, that you belong to me. You have sold yourself to me. I can do anything to you--"

Marius strokes himself faster, blood drying on his thighs, gasping and whining against Montparnasse's palm. He writhes helplessly, moaning at every thrust, sobbing in pleasure more than pain now. Montparnasse feels him whispering something, and his words are too muffled to discern their sounds, but from the movement of his lips he wouldn't be surprised if Marius was saying _please, please, please_.

Montparnasse is tempted to cover both his mouth and his nose, stop him breathing again, but decides against it. He wouldn't want to be repetitive. "You're about to come, aren't you?" Slowly, shamefully, Marius nods. "Not a surprise. Well, when you do, don't scream." Marius shudders, and Montparnasse smirks. "Why? Because I told you to."

Marius gives a choked sob, eyes almost flickering shut before he remembers Montparnasse wouldn't like that. Montparnasse grins and thrusts into him savagely, like he's the one who's desperate to come, though honestly he thinks he's a while off yet. Marius whimpers and whines and sobs, pressing his mouth against Montparnasse's skin to try and restrain his cries.

"I can do anything to you," Montparnasse repeats himself (didn't he say he wouldn't do that?), "I can make you awful -- I can make you _so_ ugly -- ow!"

Marius manages to get the flesh of Montparnasse's palm between his teeth and _bites_. Then he falls apart. He writhes and gasps and bucks and moans and cries. Come shoots out of him violently, mixing with the blood, leaving him all pink and ruined. His desperate shrieks are this close to a scream, just like he's forbidden from, but he's trying -- that's why he bites, to keep himself under control. So Montparnasse smiles at the pain, for it means that this boy wants to obey him.

Marius twitches, moaning as his orgasm finishes. Then he falls forward again, forehead against the mirror dangerously close to the shattered glass, eyes slipping closed. Montparnasse fumes.

"I warned you against that," he says, yanking Marius's head up again. But it's no use. Marius isn't listening, because he's unconscious.

_Truly, he is Snow White._

-

Montparnasse is actually confused. He knows what he should do. He should use this boy's unconscious body for his own pleasure, keep fucking him until he comes, then leave Marius on the floor bleeding and defiled.

Yet, that is not what he does.

Gently, he removes himself from Marius, placing an arm either side of the boy to keep him from simply tipping over. He examines the boy's face in the mirror, tears still rolling down his cheeks, and his quiet deep breathing, so unlike all those desperate cries.

Montparnasse scoops the boy into his arms, like a groom carrying his beloved new bride to bed, and lays him down upon the filthy mattress.

He did this to ruin Marius, disgrace and humiliate him. Yet as he sleeps, he looks as gentle and sweet as ever. He looks like a princess awaiting true love's kiss.

Montparnasse's fury swells again. No.

He reaches down and tears open Marius's shirt, that which he left mostly on because he thought it would be more horrific for Marius to get fucked half-dressed, like a prostitute who will be out on the streets looking for another customer in half an hour. He grabs his prick and strokes it roughly, hissing and snarling like an animal, like a beast, until he deposits his come across Marius's chest.

But that does nothing. That's no more filthy than the mess of fluid across the boy's thighs. Montparnasse starts to gasp, panicking.

He kneels on the side of the bed, staring at the boy's thin, pale form. He scoops some of the red and white into his hand, and spreads it across Marius's arm. Montparnasse starts to smear the mess all over him, across his chest, his neck, his face. Tears and blood and semen all mix, and Montparnasse smiles. That's absolutely disgraceful.

But when he steps back, it's done nothing. You can still see those cute, boyish freckles through the mess. He looks violated, but innocent.

Montparnasse bites down on his cherry lower lip, hides his eyes behind his thick, dark lashes. This can't be happening. Suddenly, he remembers a pot of lipstick he keeps in his coat pocket. It is his last chance.

The lipstick mixes with the blood and come on his finger. Roughly, he starts to scrawl words across Marius's skin; things like _whore_ and _slut_. Across his thigh he leaves a sentence, _needs to be fucked_ , with an arrow pointing to his red and wet hole. Then, with great care, he pushes himself up and writes one clear word across Marius's forehead:

_Ugly._

That's it. That's all he can say. If that did not work, then--

No. No, oh god, no. Marius doesn't look ugly at all. He looks _tragic_. He looks horribly hurt, with so much blood all over him, with crude, boarish insults on his skin when he cannot defend himself. Montparnasse can see hundreds upon thousands of men going to war to defend this fair maiden's honour. He made the whore like it, like being fucked, but somehow Marius makes that seem pure -- he can be a slut for as many cocks as he wants and still look as chaste as the Virgin Mary. Montparnasse doesn't understand. But he feels the blood and come all over himself; his askew clothes, his displaced hair, his skin all stained and splattered. He went into the depths believing the stench would stick to Marius, but no, it's sticking to him. He feels like the ugly one. He wants to scream, trying to flatten his hair. smooth his clothes, but only making more of a mess. No, no, no!

There's a knock at the door.

Montparnasse stops dead. He gulps. Gently, he places himself back inside his trousers, wipes his hands on Marius's hair (but locks so thick and dark show nothing, oh god). He should be smarter than to open the door to anyone after doing something like this. Yet he finds himself making his way over to the door anyway.

Lately he's felt as if he's not many things he should be.

He blinks at what he sees when he opens it. "Claquesous," he says. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw two very pretty boys who I did not know knew each other going home together, and got curious." He gives Montparnasse a grin. "May I come in?"

Warily, Montparnasse stands aside and lets him inside. Claquesous spots Marius's should-be-debauched figure on the bed, and clicks his tongue. Montparnasse looks down, oddly ashamed, feeling like a schoolboy about to be reprimanded.

"I see. I know what you were trying to do," says Claquesous. "You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to take away everything that made him so enchanting. You thought you could simply ravish him, and that would make him into something useless and ordinary, not worth bothering with, and certainly not prettier than you."

Montparnasse nods, struggling not to let tears fall. God, what is wrong with him?

"But it didn't work. You underestimated Monsieur Pontmercy. Just how sweet he is. How shy and fragile. How lost and innocent. How desperately in need of love. That radiates from him, and it charms the most hardened hearts -- even our Eponine. She loves him because he gives her hope, not because he has full lips."

Montparnasse looks up to see Claquesous smirking at him.

"You may be pretty, Montparnasse, but he's beautiful. There's nothing you can do about that."

"Can you?" Montparnasse asks. "...Please? Just... Oh god, make it stop. Make him stop. Please, can you do that for me?"

He's begging. The words taste like ash in his mouth. Claquesous gives him an odd half-smile, the shadows settling in his skin and the smoke in his eyes. Slowly, he moves away from Montparnasse, stepping toward Marius's open, vulnerable figure. He starts undoing the buttons on his own trousers (dark teal, not fitting particularly well, but not abhorrent looking).

"I can certainly try."


End file.
